


Fables around the Campfire

by AbigailKinney4life



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Geralt is weirdly philosophical about his dick, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Not What It Looks Like, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slut Jaskier | Dandelion, There's A Tag For That, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, we got no time for emotionally constipated Geralt in this pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: Jaskier has wanted to fuck Geralt since the first moment he set eyes on him, and Geralt has tried to hold back, he really has, for the sake of friendship. But sometimes your bard is so bratty and annoying all you can do is fuck them back into submission.Shameless PWP.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 62
Kudos: 1207
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Viv's Favorite Fics





	Fables around the Campfire

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay this is pretty filthy and fucked up, it’s a bit non-con but they both want it and I’ve tried to make consent as explicit as possible so…? Basically they’re both freaks in the sack and get up to some kinky shit when I turn my back. Please enjoy this garbage. All my love.

Jaskier flirted with him. At the start of their acquaintance, after their meeting in Posada, it was just little things. Like a smile in his direction when they were on the road, or Jaskier composing over a campfire and catching his eye, lips automatically stretching over pearly white teeth in that cheeky way he was with everyone. Or it was a lingering gaze over his lips when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking, or a gentle brush of fingers against Geralt’s hand when he passed him something. It was almost subtle enough to be mistaken as nothing more than the casual intimacy between friends, if it hadn’t been for the scent of Jaskier’s lust that clung to each and every one of his actions.

Geralt snorted and shook it off because it was easy enough to ignore. He didn’t kid himself, he knew there was more than a rapidly increasing reputation that kept the bard by his side. It was an ill-fated attraction that would fizzle out as soon as Jaskier got bored. Except Jaskier didn’t get bored, Jaskier got _impatient_.

Used to getting what he wanted with the flick of a wrist, the Viscount de Lettenhove didn’t take Geralt’s willful blindness to his subtle come-ons very well and, as the years went by and they became each other’s second skin, the continent sang the heroic tales of the white wolf, Geralt was no longer turned out on his ass but instead welcomed into towns, and Geralt had started to appreciate the bard’s bright eyes and relentless lute music as an inescapable facet of his life, Jaskier began to get bolder, his flirting got stronger until he’d decided he didn’t want to be ignored any longer.

The first time it happened, they were hauled up in an inn in the north while a snowstorm raged outside. Stretched out in an armchair in front of the fire, booted feet resting on a bearskin rug and a pint of ale gripped in his hand, Geralt was content to let the storm rage outside and take some much-needed respite.

The inn was full with raucous patrons who paid his companion handsomely to entertain them in their lock-in with raunchy ballads and heroic tales. From his lone place by the fire, Geralt could just hear Jaskier’s soft voice lulling as he dipped into a particularly seductive verse, no doubt to impress a buxom woman leaning into him, and the embers crackled in front of him and Geralt was happy to nod off.

After a while, Jaskier joined him by the fire, forgoing the armchairs arranged elegantly in a semi-circle around it for the small wooden bench seated directly in front of the fire with his back to Geralt. It didn’t look soft and Geralt imagined it was too close to the fire to be comfortably warm for too long. Jaskier stuck his hands out in front of the fire, until they were practically touching the flames, his tired fingers flexing as a content sigh escaped his lips. His doublet was unlaced, as was often the case, and as he stretched his back and pulled his arms above his head in an attempt to loosen the knotted muscles hours of playing left him with, his doublet rose revealing the white undershirt tucked into the waistband of his breeches and his pert bottom perched on the edge of the bench. The solid wood of the seat moulded the tight globes invitingly.

Geralt cocked his head to the side as he took a good look. Of course he’d thought about fucking him; even witcher’s had red blood pumping through their veins, contrary to popular opinion, and Jaskier was an attractive kid. He had a feminine slightness combined with solid muscle and masculine, hard lines that resulted in a confused but not entirely unwelcome warmth in Geralt’s stomach. But as nice as the idea was to entertain his idle mind in front of a fire on a cold night, he’d never do it. The bard was still young, after all, and he was entirely too important to him to ruin the, what he would dare call a friendship, by thinking with his dick when the truth was that Jaskier gave him more than a nice ass to stare at.

But he’d be lying to himself if he said that was the only reason he couldn’t entertain such a thought. It was also because Geralt, well, he had a problem with sex. The precise opposite of what jumped to everyone’s minds as soon as anyone confessed such a thing. Geralt was a witcher, and a big one even by their standards. His inhuman stamina, and his… _physical_ _attributes_ were more in line with an animal than a man and more than most people could take. Even paid whores, who salivated at the sight of him, erect and heavy, and insisted they could handle it, were soon whining and shuddering under his thick body, loose and overstimulated when he was nowhere near spent.

Very fucking few could handle a witcher, it was something often lamented among him and his brothers and they told stories around their campfires at Kaer Morhen of the bittersweet memories of the one man or woman who had ridden them to ecstasy, like it was a fable that couldn’t be recaptured. Like those partners were the stuff of legend, and Geralt highly doubted Jaskier happened to be one of them. Despite his flirting, his youthful virility, the aroma of lust on him whenever he saw Geralt, big and strong and menacing, it was all but a fantasy to him. He wouldn’t be so interested when Geralt was balls-deep inside him and splitting his asshole open on his thick witcher dick.

Jaskier left the bench when the heat began to prickle uncomfortably at his skin and settled more comfortably in the armchair beside Geralt. He looked rosy-cheeked and tipsy. Geralt flicked his eyes up in greeting but otherwise didn’t move.

“You having fun over here on your own?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm.”

“You should come join us, the girls want to meet you.”

Geralt angled his head to the bard, who was leaning on his arm and staring at him unashamedly. Geralt favoured him with a small smile. “You should enjoy your coquettish company.” He said, amusement in his gravelly voice. “They’re more favourable than I.”

Jaskier ‘cluck’ed disapprovingly and lurched forward, and all of a sudden they were sharing the same armchair. It was big enough that Jaskier wasn’t perched on his lap but Jaskier was not even remotely small enough to sit beside him without having to drape his legs over Geralt’s splayed thighs. The weight of the bard on top of him was both uncomfortable and intensely warm.

“Jaskier, you’re drunk.” He observed. He would have simply shoved him off otherwise, but he was worried that he might crack his skull on the way down.

“Hmm.” Jaskier replied happily, slinging his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and burying his head in his neck. He took a deep breath, smelling his warmth as much as his scent, and exhaled shallowly. Geralt felt the burst of hot breath on his neck and his lips twitched imperceptibly. He made knowing eye contact with the fire in front of him as if it could somehow share his tired indignation at the bard’s lewd behaviour but it just continued to crackle obstinately and Geralt was forced to rest his ale on the small table beside him and press his fingers against Jaskier’s shoulder. He pushed him back with the barest force, pressing him into the arm of the armchair and putting as much distance between them as the crowded space allowed.

Jaskier frowned at him. “Oh, come on.” He whined petulantly.

“It’s not going to happen, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was light, amused and he was too tired and calm to convince himself to be annoyed. But something close to disappointment did clip his words without intent. He turned his mind from such things.

“Why not?” He huffed, pushing forward against Geralt’s hand. Geralt felt the resistance of the bard’s firm chest beneath his fingertips.

He could have told him the truth, he supposed, but Jaskier was drunk and probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning, if past experiences had set a reliable precedent. An abridged version of the truth, then. “You couldn’t handle me.”

Jaskier laughed before he extracted his long legs from Geralt’s and stood, mumbling something like ‘obviously haven’t heard of my courtly reputation’, before careening off back to his adoring crowd and abandoning a lost cause when he saw one.

Geralt picked up his drink and took a long slug, pretending to ignore the bulge in his trousers and the cool air on his thighs where Jaskier had been.

The second time it happened, Jaskier was stone cold sober.

They had been, or more accurately, Geralt had been fighting a kikimora that had taken up residence in the river that bisected Ridden Forest. It had taken several hours of tracking alongside miles of grassy river bank before they’d found the many-legged beast crouched low in the deep water and feasting on the carcass of a half-devoured deer. The river bank was so exposed Geralt could not take the beast by surprise as he had wanted to, and instead threw himself waist-deep into the river – part-water, part-deer’s blood – and sliced the razor edge of his sword clean through a leg. The exoskeleton cracked under the metal like shelling a crab and the severed leg skimmed the river like a stone until it sunk to the bottom with a loud, wet plop. Black blood spewed from the severed leg and sprayed Geralt in the face, momentarily blinding him. He could hear the pained shrieks of the kikimora as it abandoned its deer and collapsed onto its remaining limbs. Keeping his sword firmly in hand, he shoved his free hand into the water and splashed some on his face to dislodge the blood in his eyes. The water was as filthy as the rest of him and his eyes stung but he forced them open just in time to see the great maw of the beast bearing down on him. It enclosed its cavernous mouth over his shoulder and bit firmly. Geralt felt the blunt pressure of its teeth caught in his leather shoulder guard and clenched his teeth as he twirled his sword artfully, slicing across the kikimora’s exposed neck. More blood splattered into the water and the kikimora’s mouth released him, taking staggering steps back as it bled out into the river. Geralt, not known for his cruelty, changed his fighting style fluidly and grasped his sword with both hands, wincing as his shoulder complained at him, and speared the beast through the skull and ended its misery. Geralt grunted, low and satisfied, as the silver tip exploded through the back of its skull, spraying obsidian blood and grey brain matter across the surface of the water.

Geralt retracted his blade with a sharp tug and let the kikimora sink to the bottom of the river, its monstrous limbs still sticking strikingly from the depths. Geralt turned his back on it and trudged from the river, his wet clothes weighing him down, before he discarded his sword in the grass and allowed himself to collapse on the bank of the river bed. The kikimora blood stained his skin and plastered his hair to his face and he could feel it drying as he caught his breath, but he couldn’t bring himself to care in that moment as he kicked his legs out in front of him and balanced his elbows on his knees and basked in the simple pleasure of being alive after a relatively close call. He snorted as he imagined telling Lambert that he’d almost died because kikimora blood sprayed in his eyes. He could practically hear his brother pissing himself.

He heard Jaskier approaching before he saw him, then the bard was stood in front of him. He was dressed head to toe in crushed purple velvet and his hair was combed neatly out of his face but most notably he was wearing an unreadable albeit grim expression on his face. He walked forward without a word and dropped heavily into the witcher’s lap. Geralt grunted in surprise as he felt Jaskier’s arms wrap around his neck. He heard himself squelching against Jaskier’s clothes and made a face at the absolute hell the bard would scream later when he realised he’d ruined yet another expensive outfit with monster guts, but it seemed the farthest thing from his mind at that moment as he balanced all of his weight on his knees and held the witcher tightly as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

Geralt raised one of his hands and awkwardly placed it on the small of Jaskier’s back and applied what he hoped was reassuring pressure. “I’m okay.” He rumbled into the bard’s chest.

“Thought I’d lost you, you idiot.” Jaskier mumbled into his hair. It couldn’t have been pleasant, getting a lungful of Geralt in his current state, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care. He _really_ didn’t seem to care, in fact, as Geralt felt the unmistakable lump of Jaskier’s erection pressed against the soiled armour of his stomach.

He sighed to himself, he was only too aware of the involuntary effects battle had on the body, and moved his hand from Jaskier’s back to his shoulder and attempted to dislodge the bard. Jaskier paid him no attention as he snaked a hand from around Geralt’s neck and shoved it between them, coating his fingers accidentally in kikimora blood, before grabbing Geralt’s dick through his trousers. That was when Geralt realised he was hard too. Of course, he was hard, he often was after slaying a monster. His body was drowning in adrenalin, heightened even more so with his mutation, and it was dangerous and reckless of Jaskier to proposition him at such a time.

Geralt involuntarily pictured shoving Jaskier onto the grassy bank they were sat on, imagined the feel of velvet under his fingers as he ripped Jaskier’s trousers from his body, the straining thigh muscles in his grip as he spread his legs and shoved his aching cock into Jaskier’s tight little waiting pucker. He imagined the look of pure shock and, he knew he was reaching, pleasure on his face as he writhed on his cock and the absolute devastation to his hole when Geralt pulled out. It would be _gaping_ and _slick_ with Geralt’s seed and Jaskier’s blood.

Jaskier’s mouth was clamped on his neck, sucking at the exposed and sensitive flesh beneath his ear as if he’d known it was there, right where his blood pounded through his veins. His hand was rubbing Geralt’s dick more insistently now, encouraged that Geralt hadn’t pushed him away, before his fingers started fumbling with his zip. Geralt groaned, hand moving from its barely half-hearted attempts to push Jaskier’s shoulder away and fisting in Jaskier’s hair in a painful tug until their mouths were on each other, lips sliding wetly together as Geralt shoved his tongue into the waiting cavern of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier’s moans were muffled by Geralt’s hard kiss, his whimpers lost as he bit hungrily at his lips and forced him impossibly closer with the hand in his hair, ripping brunet strands from the bard’s head as Jaskier’s hand finally enclosed around his cock. Rivulets of precome leaked from his weeping cockhead and Jaskier used the convenient lubrication to jerk his hand, hard and rough, like he was trying to wrest the witcher’s cock from his body.

It took the barest flex of Geralt’s strength to topple them and he was shoving the bard into the grass. He clambered on top of Jaskier, engulfing his body under his own, and held him painfully down by the clavicle. A spark of pain shot through his injured shoulder but he ignored it in favour of devouring Jaskier with the ferocious look in his eyes.

“I’ve told you, no.” He growled.

Jaskier, hard, panting, come-stained fingers flexing uselessly around thin air, stared up at him with lust-blown eyes. He was too turned on to convince his face to look confused. “What…?” He managed to breathe out. “Why?”

“You can’t handle me.” Geralt repeated.

Jaskier groaned roughly, kicking his legs out in a useless but unenthusiastic attempt to move Geralt’s body weight from on top of him. “What the fuck does that _mean_?”

“It means I’m a witcher! It means I’ve got a cock the size of your fucking arm. It means I’ll _fuck_ your poor little asshole until it’s red raw and you can sit on a fucking pole, but you won’t be because you’ll be too busy _crying_ on my cock!” The words were yelled, angry, fearmongering, and he was not expecting Jaskier’s eyelids to droop and his lips to part. He looked the most aroused he’d ever been in his entire life.

“Fuck, Geralt,” he choked out, hand reaching between them and pawing at his own stiff cock. “Do it, make me sit on your dick, fuck me open until I’m begging you to stop, then _don’t_ , _please_.”

Geralt growled low and predatorily before springing to his feet with his cock as hard as a rock in his trousers.

“ _Humans_.” He spat, as if it were a slur, before he was gone as quick and as silent as the wind.

The third time it happened, Geralt had had enough.

They’d been on the road for two months solid, unable to find work as the weather turned bitter around them and forced monsters into hibernation. Only Jaskier’s busking had kept them from starving and the witcher expected the bard to abandon him any day now but it never came. Part of him wished he would.

They were both pissed off, tired, cold and, since the day of river bank encounter, so fucking horny at the sight of each other. They hadn’t spoken about that day, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sit heavy in Geralt’s mind and presumably Jaskier’s as well. Every one of the bard’s movements brought back some memory. The gentle curl of his lips made Geralt think of them warm against his, a hand rustling his hair made Geralt imagine tugging the neat locks in his fist, the strum of his long fingers on his lute made him imagine them wrapped tight around his cock. He never thought he’d be jealous of a piece of fucking shiny wood. It was getting harder and harder to ignore with Jaskier is such close proximity, especially when they settled under the stars each evening and Geralt’s nightly erections were becoming common place.

He used to relieve himself, but now he didn’t bother. He’d come in his fist and barely soften, his mind as unsatisfied as his body, and somehow he just felt more desperate and on edge than before. Now he would just lie there, hard and wanting, his hand twitching as he denied himself, all the while a mere foot from ploughing into Jaskier’s pliant body whether the bard wanted it or not.

Jaskier hadn’t risked propositioning him since the river bank and Geralt was glad for it, because if he even risked opening his mouth around Geralt he’d find a cock shoved against his tongue.

Geralt stared at the stars, willing sleep to take him. He opened his trousers, merely to relieve the painful pressure of his zip digging into the flesh of his hard prick, nothing more, he told himself, before letting his hands rest on the steady rise and fall of his chest as he closed his eyes.

A muffed release of breath made his head snap to the side. He could just see Jaskier’s back in the gloom, a blanket pulled tight around his body against the biting chill of the night as he faced away from him. He could have easily been mumbling in his sleep. Except the quickening rise and fall of his blanket by his groin and the rustle of fabric were telling enough.

Geralt looked away but his brain had tuned into the noise now and all he could seem to hear was the hurried rustle of fabric and the low moans that would be indistinct to human ears. He also heard the slick slide of a hand tugging on its own flesh.

He imagined what it would look like, seeing the engorged crown of Jaskier’s cock disappearing into his slick fist, the spurts of white that would shoot out while, doubtless, fantasies of Geralt played out in his mind.

His mouth was open, his breath halted and a hand over his own cock before he could stop himself. He grasped himself too hard through the opening of his trousers and the moan of pained pleasure he let out was still quiet, but loud enough to be heard in the relative silence of the campsite.

The rustle of fabric stopped as Jaskier’s hand stilled and Geralt could practically hear his ears pricking up at the sound of Geralt. He winced. There was no way Jaskier would mistake his moan for anything other than what it was. Geralt rarely slept as it was and he didn’t mumble in his sleep, he wouldn’t be much a creature of stealth if he did. But somehow, the knowledge that Jaskier knew exactly what he was doing wasn’t as unwelcome as Geralt expected it to be. Jaskier knowing he was touching himself to his moans made his heartbeat quicken and his cock thicken in his grip. This was safe, somehow, like they could both share what they’d wanted to for the last few months without actually having to cross the terrifying threshold from friendship into the unknown of sex and lust and complications.

Geralt pulled his hand up, squeezing along his length to his head, before sinking his fist back down to the base. He wished his hand were warmer, tighter, wetter – he moaned softly as the tell-tale sparks of pleasure erupted in his nerve endings.

The rustling of fabric resumed and it was louder than before. Geralt tipped his head to the side, risking a glance over at his bedfellow. Jaskier still had his back to him, but his arm was moving again, the fabric of his blanket practically shaking against the speed of his hand on himself and when he drew a groan from himself, he didn’t bother stifling it too much.

Geralt knew it was wrong, and a little childish, as he fucked up into his own fist and imagined it was Jaskier’s hand on him, or his mouth, and Jaskier let out an unexpected choked sob and Geralt wondered what he’d done. Had he squeezed his cockhead too hard? Had his nail accidentally scraped across the sensitive flesh? Had he slipped his free hand below his waist band and prodded at his puckered opening?

Geralt’s fist tightened, flying over his cock in aggressive, painfully dry strokes and the orgasm that overcame him was underwhelming and short-lived, still he breathed heavily as his cock twitched in his loosening grip. He stared up at the stars as Jaskier bit down around something and moaned, hips jutting under his blanket as he took more pleasure from his release than Geralt had.

They didn’t speak after that. And neither of them slept, either.

Mercifully, less than a week later they stopped in a shitty little dead-end town by the edge of the forest where the mayor was being held hostage by a hostile bruxa. Geralt managed to take out a lot of his unspent frustration as he drove his sword through her heart and returned her head to the mayor for a handsome sum.

The first thing they did was pay for a room at the local tavern. Geralt sorely wished they could afford two so he could be separated from the bard but even he was too frugal to know that their current good fortune could dry up very quickly and it was best to save what little coin they had. Accordingly, the pair trudged upstairs to their single room in silence, a staple for them lately, and Geralt barely managed to dump his stuff on the bed before he was turning to the door again. He’d passed a brothel on his way to the mayor’s house and sex and sweat flooded his nostrils. He fancied a woman with long, light hair and pretty skin and supple breasts would be just the thing to relieve his suffering and take the strong, masculine lines of Jaskier’s body from his mind.

“Err, where do you think you’re going?” Jaskier’s voice stopped him dead. He sounded stern, like they were a married couple in a fight and Geralt was the chastised husband. It was enough to turn him on his heel.

By the time Geralt had turned to him, Jaskier was pulling his shirt over his head. He threw the garment on the floor with little care and his hands went to his trousers, unbuttoning them swiftly as he kept his eyes on Geralt. He was hard-faced and pissed off, it wasn’t a look the bard usual wore nor one that especially suited him.

Geralt didn’t even have time to ask what he was doing by the time Jaskier had thrown his trousers aside and stood before Geralt as naked as the day he was born. He was pale and lithe, with dark hair on his chest and legs. His frame was muscular without being overly so and the plane of his stomach was flat and a little skinner than necessary. His cock, which lets be fair was the first place Geralt’s eyes went to, was not huge nor was it small and it stood flushed and expectant, the dark foreskin just retracting as he hardened with a glistening flash of pink just peeking out from underneath.

“You’re going to fuck me, witcher, right now.” Jaskier ordered, voice stony.

Geralt supposed he should have been aroused, and he supposed he was, but mostly he was just pissed off. The fucking bard was ordering him around now, was he?

Geralt’s frustration, both sexual and otherwise, at the man in front of him peaked and he found himself nodding.

“Okay, fine.” He growled his assent. “Fuck it, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you wide open. But you have to submit to me in every way, understood?”

He hoped Jaskier knew this wasn’t him relenting, this was _punishment_. If the bard wanted to be speared on his cock, Geralt wouldn’t deny him any longer. Just the thought of that smug, irritated look wiped off of Jaskier’s face and the tears in his eyes as his asshole was used mercilessly was glorious, his pained whimpers in Geralt’s head was a music sweeter than any of his ballads.

Jaskier nodded his agreement to Geralt’s terms and only then did Geralt approach him. He tugged his shirt over his head in the time it took to cross the room to Jaskier. Jaskier lent forward expectantly, eyes closing to kiss him but Geralt’s hand was on his breastbone, shoving him roughly backwards. The bard let out an unexpected yelp as he folded in two and collapsed onto the bed, his face pressing to the pillow and his ass in the air. Geralt wasted no time in grasping a cheek in his hand, dwarfing the bard’s pert backside with his large hand, and squeezing. Jaskier drew a quick breath as Geralt kneaded the meat of his ass, humming appreciatively. It was every bit the glorious, smooth bottom Geralt expected it to be. It would only look lovelier stretched and disciplined on his cock.

He brought his other hand up and pulled Jaskier’s ass cheeks apart, revealing his small pink hole to him. He held him open for a few long moments, just staring at Jaskier’s most private, intimate, vulnerable place. The waves of shame and embarrassment were so thick around the bard that Geralt could smell them, they coiled like heat in his gut and twisted around his erection and stimulated him. Jaskier’s suffering, his _humiliation_ , his come-uppance after daring to order Geralt about, was intoxicating.

He teased a blunt fingertip over Jaskier’s hole, the skin soft and pliant beneath the hard press of his hand, and Jaskier jolted instinctively. “That’s the prettiest that’s going to look for a while.” He muttered cockily, loud enough for Jaskier to hear, watching in satisfaction as a tremble travelled down his spine.

“Geralt…” The bard moaned into the pillow. Before he could say anything else, Geralt’s hand was on his ankle, tugging him to the end of the bed and flipping him until he was on his back and staring up at the witcher. Geralt was glaring down at him, all thick-set rippling muscle, bone-white hair framing his stern face and hard golden eyes boring holes into him. Jaskier gulped.

“Stay.” Geralt growled as he let go of Jaskier’s ankle, leaving white finger marks as he walked away.

Jaskier pushed himself up onto his elbows but didn’t dare move anymore. His legs stayed akimbo where Geralt had dragged him unceremoniously to the end of the bed. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he watched the witcher across the room. He was turned away from him, his muscular back was pale and scarred, curving into a dip as his waist thinned before disappearing under the black leather of his trousers. His fingers were brushing through his pale hair, tugging the tie out of his locks and gathering the errant strands and readjusting the knot until his hair was out of his face, his haste and hard-handedness meaning that a few strands inevitably fell rebelliously in his face. It looked and felt very much like the witcher was preparing for battle, and Jaskier was the beast he was about to slay.

Geralt came back to the bed, hand dipping into the pack still discarded there from earlier and enclosing around a vial of oil as he stood at the end of the bed, framed by Jaskier’s spread legs. He looked glorious. The hard lines of his abdomen spread low into a deliciously defined V-shape that disappeared disappointingly beneath his trousers, but the contrast of the tight black leather against the taut pale musculature was inviting and erotic in its own way. Thick veins stood out against his mountainous biceps, the thick, heavy stretch of his pectoral muscle was smattered with light chest hair that seemed to glimmer under the soft light by the bed as his chest rose and fell with each outward breath. Geralt ardently denied being a man, but he was so very _masculine_ that it made Jaskier weak. It spoke to that primal part of his brain that wanted height and hair and thick, fibrous muscle as a giver of pleasure and protection that could not be provided by a weaker mate. He could only imagine the thick cock Geralt hid from the world, and how it would feel hot and throbbing inside him. His own cock bobbed helplessly between his legs just at the thought of being used and destroyed and at the mercy of the witcher as decades of wanton longing were about to reach their deserved catharsis.

Geralt’s eyes raised imperceptibly as he slowly dragged the zip of his trousers down, the sound of teeth catching on metal echoing in the quiet room and Jaskier’s breath actually hitched as if it were some great reveal and not his lover disrobing to fuck him.

Geralt shoved his trousers down around the thick trunks of his thighs before he kicked them off along with his boots and he stood straight before Jaskier in all his naked glory.

 _Oh shit_ , Jaskier thought.

Geralt’s cock was _enormous_. It was immense, colossal, elephantine, and as many other hair-raising synonyms’ as Jaskier’s brain unhelpfully spewed forth. Preportunally, it suited the rest of him just fine, but that didn’t stop it being the biggest cock Jaskier had ever seen. It was thick and long in equal measure and deep red with blood, curving erect up to Geralt’s stomach yet still managing to dip down under its own weight. Geralt’s shiny red cockhead was bulbous, engorged and glistening with precome. He ran a hand over himself, his large fingers just touching around his girth as he drew his hand to his crown, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s as he stroked himself, but Jaskier was too busy staring at the _monster_ Geralt had just pulled from his pants.

“Geralt, wait…” He tried, mouth drying around his words.

“Waiting’s over, bard, you’re getting fucked like you always wanted.”

Jaskier’s eyes, wide and almost fearful, finally left Geralt’s cock and found his face. The gobsmacked look of shock and panic on his face was a balm to Geralt’s ego. “But you’ll split me in half.” He said quietly.

Geralt was quite tempted to end it there and then. He’d made his point, he’d shown Jaskier his great pride and shame and he was fairly sure he understood now why he wasn’t exactly eager to tear him a new asshole and he might have scared him enough to shut him up.

But by gods was Geralt fucking hard. His hand on himself sped up instinctively. Seeing Jaskier stretched out before him, legs apart, just inviting him to sink in and _fuck_ him was too much to throw away.

“Tell me to stop.” He said, holding Jaskier’s gaze. “And I will.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, weighing up his options in his mind as Geralt had done, before he seemed to make an exaggerated show of pursing his lips together so not a sound could escape.

Geralt stepped forward and grasped Jaskier’s calves, wrenching his legs up until his ankles rested on his shoulders. Jaskier let out a quiet noise and his legs shook imperceptibly as he laid himself back on the bed. Geralt’s hands returned to Jaskier’s ass, squeezing the soft globes before his gaze fell upon his puckered hole. It was small and pale, so very small and probably so very tight. Geralt took his cock in one hand and rubbed the engorged head over that small ring of muscle. Jaskier’s entire body jolted in panic and Geralt had to stop himself from chuckling. He was only joking.

He let his cock flop down as far as it would while erect and reached for the oil he’d retrieved from his pack.

Jaskier stared up at him as he trailed a slick finger over his entrance and probed the tip into the secret crevice. Jaskier’s breath increased a bit but otherwise he seemed unfazed.

“You been fucked before?”

“Of course.” Jaskier replied, voice tight and eyes never leaving Geralt’s.

Geralt grunted. He expected as much. He was surprised by the wave of disappointment that washed over him that he was not the first to breech the bard’s tiny virgin hole but he’d definitely be the most memorial of his not inconsiderable experience and he’d take that.

A second finger joined the first and Geralt stayed still inside Jaskier for a long while before he eased his fingers apart, creating space between the two digits, watching as the skin of Jaskier’s hole parted around the emptiness, revealing the soft red flesh that lurked vulnerably inside.

“Geralt, you don’t have to go easy on me.” Jaskier said admonishingly, but he was panting. He’d pushed himself up to his elbows and curled a hand around his own cock, as stiff as a post, as he shoved his ass down on Geralt’s fingers as if to prove his point.

Calling his bluff, Geralt shoved a third finger in deep without warning. Jaskier yelped and his ass clamped down instinctively. “Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you,” Geralt warned him, “not after all you’ve put me through.”

Jaskier’s hand stilled on his own cock, his hooded eyes wavering as Geralt sunk his fingers in up to his palm. Jaskier groaned, loudly, his head hitting the pillow as his hole pulsed hotly around Geralt’s hand. Geralt flexed his buried fingers, meeting the resistance of squishy flesh inside him, and hummed appreciatively when Jaskier arched his back and his eyes burst wide open. Using his other hand, he poured more oil into his palm and allowed it to slither down with gravity and sink into the stretched ring of muscle. He pulled his hand out slightly before sinking back in all the way. He met less resistance that time, but that didn’t stop Jaskier’s legs quivering around him. He was stuffed full, his hole stretched taut around Geralt’s thick fingers. He was twitching relentlessly, as if constantly on the verge of announcing it was too much but aborting at the last second and relaxing around the foreign intrusion inside him.

“Do you think the fourth one will hurt?” He asked, and he actually just meant it to be a question, he wasn’t expecting Jaskier’s eyes to burst open and for the bard to shoot up instinctively. A combination of having almost an entire hand buried in his ass and his ankles on the witcher’s shoulders stopped him from actually sitting up but still, Jaskier had a fucking place in this bed and Geralt made sure to remind him exactly where it was.

He drove his fingers in roughly, an obscene squelching filling the air between them as Geralt battered Jaskier’s prostate ceaselessly. Jaskier let out a strangled, surprised moan and fell back on the bed. Geralt kept up his ruthless pace for a few moments, fingering Jaskier so hard that his fingers within him and the palm of his hand without were practically touching through the skin of his perineum. Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head and crossed simultaneously, his mouth frozen open, hips raising off the bed as if trying to escape the pleasurable pressure wreaking havoc on his senses. His cockhead wept an uncontrollable stream of precome that collated on Geralt’s busy hand and squelched under its quickening movements.

“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck.” Jaskier cursed when he found his voice again, a litany of half-whispered vulgarities his only defence against the rapturous abuse to his body.

“Ready to behave?” Geralt asked calmly.

Jaskier nodded erratically and finally Geralt slowed his flexing hand.

Jaskier’s breath evened out until it was worryingly shallow, his chest rose and fell heavily and his muscles fell apart like puddles as he collapsed against the bed, exhausted, a sheen of sweat coating him like a second skin.

Geralt spread his cheeks as best he could one-handed and looked at his fingers slotted deep in the bard. The slick grasp of muscle was gently pulsing around the thick digits. It didn’t look red or angry and Jaskier certainly didn’t _seem_ to be in any pain. “I think you’re ready for the fourth.”

“Geralt, please.” Jaskier muttered breathlessly. “I can’t take four.”

“When I’m finished fucking you, your poor little asshole will be able to fit a fist in it.” His free hand tightened threateningly on Jaskier’s thigh. “Maybe if you don’t stop arguing with me after you promised to submit, that’s exactly what I’ll _do_.”

Jaskier’s cock jumped as a pathetic mewl fell from his lips and he fell silent, submissive, and simply watched as Geralt eased his pinky finger inside him. He immediately felt the pressure of Jaskier’s stretched hole around his fingers. Jaskier’s neck seized, his eyes closing as he held himself taut, riding through the spasms of discomfort as quietly and with as much dignity as he could. Geralt’s hand on his thigh curled into something more comforting, stroking his thumb along his skin in silent praise and protection and soon he felt the tell-tale give of relaxed loosening around his hand.

He let his hand slither free of Jaskier with an obscene slurp and watched as the muscle retracted, loosened and pliant, but still shrinking back to practically its normal size. He felt sorry for Jaskier, in some ways, but in others he practically salivated at the thought of stuffing that hungrily little hole with as much as it could take.

Geralt took his cock in his hand, slick with a mixture of oil and Jaskier’s precome, and slathered himself up. He rubbed the thick head over Jaskier’s puffy hole, the poor, contracting entrance dwarfed by the engorged crown, and heard Jaskier whimper as he felt the pressure of Geralt’s cock against his stretched hole, so used and battered already by nothing but Geralt’s fingers in him.

“Where do you think it’s going to go?” He teased, voice rough as his rubbed his shining slit over the malleable ridges of Jaskier’s swollen muscle and smearing his own precome there. Jaskier whimpered, body twitching involuntarily, but at the sensation or the playfully ominous rhetoric, Geralt didn’t know.

Geralt allowed his crown to sink inside and Jaskier wailed from a mixture of fret and the pressure of being forced open around such a wide intrusion. But Geralt aborted last minute, pulling out and watching as Jaskier’s hole contracted wildly around thin air. His chest heaved as he sucked in desperate breaths and tried to calm himself. Despite everything, Geralt returned his free hand to its place upon Jaskier’s thigh and rubbed the tense muscles comforting, saying, without words: _I’m here, I’ve got you, don’t worry_.

With his other hand, he let his cock rest on Jaskier’s pelvic bone beside his own, so Jaskier could feel the weight of it. Geralt’s cock gulfed Jaskier’s, it was almost twice the size in both length and girth and the bulbous crown rested just shy of Jaskier’s navel. Jaskier craned his neck up to see and was watching with bated breath. Geralt took advantage of the bard’s gaze and pulled his hips back, dragging his cock with him, and thrust forward slowly, pushing his cock up Jaskier’s body until it rested back on his stomach. “That’s how deep it’s going to go in you.” Geralt said quietly, pulling back and thrusting up again. Mostly it was just to torture Jaskier, but also it was because the warm drag of Jaskier’s skin was a welcome respite to his aching cock.

“Oh, Gods, Geralt…” Jaskier gulped.

“This is what you wanted, bard.”

Jaskier seemed to lose his nerve and the pitch of his voice was higher when he said: “I can’t take your cock, Geralt, please-“

“It’s going in you.” Geralt said sternly.

“ _Uh_.” Jaskier moaned, his head hitting the pillow as his cock jerked freely, astoundingly squirting out more dollops of precome as if orgasming on Geralt’s words alone. Underneath this teasing game of cat and mouse, Geralt couldn’t recall having a partner this turned on at the prospect of their coupling. It put a smile on his face that Jaskier didn’t see.

He pulled back, the time for teasing done, and lined himself up. The thick crown of his cock breeched the loosened ring of muscle and Jaskier thrashed his head back into the pillow in a way that would have been painful if it weren’t goose-feather his skull was meeting. Geralt just let his cockhead rest there for a moment, enjoying Jaskier’s asshole squeezing him, trying to expel him, his hole stretched tight around the thickest part of him without a chance to close. He felt as tight as if Geralt hadn’t nearly fisted him not five minutes ago. The sight, the feeling, the knowledge, awoke something animalistic and brutal and primal in Geralt that usually only surfaced when he’d taken a potion.

“I’m going to fuck you until your hole is this size whether you’ve got a cock in you or not.” He promised.

Jaskier whimpered, the noise was pure lust, and he curled his hands around his own knees and held his legs back, opening himself for Geralt and Geralt had to bite his own lip hard to stop himself thrusting in up to the hilt. Instead, he eased inch after inch slowly into Jaskier’s waiting body, watching as his mouth fell open and his brow furrowed in concentration as he felt every inch press inside him, the upward flex of his eyebrows was an expression of both innocence and debauchery.

“Fuck, there can’t be anymore.” Jaskier breathed out, the words exploding from him as if he were talking with no breath in his lungs, like Geralt had pushed it out of him to make room for his dick.

Geralt looked down at himself, only halfway inside, and then back up to Jaskier’s face. His hands were gripping the backs of his knees so tightly they were going white.

“Do you…”

“No!” Jaskier almost yelled, cutting Geralt off as if refusing to allow him to finish his sentence. He didn’t want Geralt’s comforting words, he wanted- “fuck me, Geralt, punish me, please!”

Geralt’s eyes darkened and his hands wrapped around Jaskier’s waist and he sunk in deeper, listening as the pitch of Jaskier’s steady moans reached only the heights a singers could. At least Jaskier had the vocal range for being fucked by a witcher. The walls of Jaskier’s body tightened explicably around him as he probed deeper than his fingers could reach and by gods was it tight. Jaskier’s entire body shook, trembling from head to toe as his eyes clamped shut. Geralt stilled, letting out a deep groan as Jaskier unwittingly flexed his soft, warm walls around Geralt’s aching flesh.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” Geralt praised uncharacteristically. “Taking my cock like that, so good, Jaskier. There’s only a little more to go.” He soothed.

A muffled noise escaped Jaskier’s tight lips and Geralt held his breath as he sunk the last inch of his mammoth cock into Jaskier’s body, an obscene groan of pleasure caught in his throat as he bottomed out inside the bard, his entire length safely sheathed in his tight heat. His hips stuttered automatically as an almost overwhelming wave of pleasure washed over the witcher. When was the last time he’d been inside someone like this? He felt a sudden rush of affection for the man below him and dropped his delirious, hazy gaze to him. Jaskier was holding himself incredibly still. His hands had left his knees and his legs were in the air on their own muscles alone, stretched wide like he were doing the splits, giving Geralt full view of his hole stretched obscenely around the thick girth spearing him open. Fuck, assholes weren’t meant to go that wide, Geralt was sure of it. The thought was both troubling and ridiculously hot. Jaskier looked slick, and loose, and his body thrummed with fullness, with intensity, with desire, but not pain. Satisfied, and more than a little relieved, Geralt allowed himself to sink bonelessly into the pleasure pooling in his stomach.

Geralt eased a few inches of his cock free before sinking back in as slowly and as gently as possible. Jaskier was tight around him, but not painfully so and the pressure on his cock was intense and too much and not enough all at once. Still, he kept up the slow pace, gently pressing back inside the bard with soft jerks of his hips and nothing that would hurt or overwhelm him. Not, it turned out, that he needed to worry about that. Jaskier’s quiet moans almost immediately turned to sharp, high-pitched intakes of breath, they were noises of intense, pleasured _shock_ that dissolved into exhales of throaty, instinctive slurs as his mouth tried to form around syllables but couldn’t quite get there before Geralt was sinking back in and forcing new exclamations of deep, bone-tingling pleasure from receptors in Jaskier’s body that he didn’t even know he _had_.

“Oh, my gods, _Geralt_.” He finally managed. His eyes eased open and his pupils were dilated black with lust. His nipples had hardened to rough points on his chest and his cock stood straight and pointed at the ceiling, his balls were retracted so tightly against his body that it looked like he didn’t have any. “I’ve never,” Geralt sunk inside him again and a high-pitched whine fell from Jaskier’s mouth, lips parted around a silent scream as his eyelids fluttered and his body spasmed under the uncontrollably powerful waves of pleasure scorching through him. “ _So good_ , Geralt, I’ve _never_ had anyone fuck me like this before.” Geralt tried not to feel proud.

Jaskier’s legs, still high in the air, were beginning to cramp without his hands there to hold them but he didn’t have the strength to hold onto anything but his own sanity. Instead, he rested his calves on top of each other, effectively crossing them mid-air in an attempt to relieve some of the strain without lowering them to the bed and making his hole any tighter than it had to be.

The effect was instant. His crossed legs did _something_ , exposed his prostate _somehow_ and he yelled in a mixture of shock and pleasure when Geralt sunk inside him, his cockhead jamming against his prostate hard and _oh gods just right there_. Jaskier’s hips bucked, slamming his ass down hard on Geralt’s thick cock. Geralt groaned from the instant pressure and the sight of Jaskier swallowing his cock up readily and greedily, chasing his own pleasure as much as Geralt’s.

A quick learner, Geralt quickly let go of Jaskier’s hip with one hand and instead enclosed it around the bard’s ankles. It was a snug fit one handed but he managed, before he pressed Jaskier’s legs up to his chest, bending the bard almost double, and holding them tight against his stomach before he resumed his thrusts, with the slight difference that he was pumping harder now, quicker, sharper, addicted to the spasms of ecstasy it sent through the man wrapped around his cock. Jaskier screamed and suddenly his cock was pulsing and spurting thick white ropes all over himself, completely untouched. He clamped down around Geralt and the witcher had to grit his teeth and kept up his hard pace, fucking him diligently through his orgasm and forcing it to last as long as possible. Jaskier’s mouth fell open and stayed wide as though his lips were being held apart by invisible hands as Geralt quite literally fucked the come out of him until he was naught but a trembling wreck on the bed.

Geralt gently released his ankles but Jaskier kept his legs tightly crossed over himself as if he’d forgotten how to move. Geralt eased his cock free from Jaskier’s hole, still hard and aching, but with the intent to give Jaskier a moment to recover after such a thing. Honestly, Geralt was impressed. He’d heard of men coming untouched before but had never actually seen it, let alone experienced it himself. He wondered what it felt like to have the seed forced from your aching loins without so much as a breeze on your flesh. Jaskier, poor lamb, was trembling too hard to be in any fit state to tell him. He looked like he was at Geralt’s mercy. The witcher had his apprehensions of taking his friend as a lover, but all dissolved the minute the bard had begun writhing on his cock. It was the single hottest thing Geralt had ever seen in his long life and all he desired was a repeat of Jaskier’s undoing.

“Show me your cock.” He said, voice gentle but still clipped, still an order.

Slowly, fearfully, almost unwillingly, Jaskier parted his legs, revealing his spent dick soaked in his own come. Geralt grasped it immediately and Jaskier wailed, legs shuddering and attempting to close, but Geralt stood between his outstretched legs, his hulking body a barrier against such a crime.

Geralt grasped his cock in one hand and, using the other, he pulled his foreskin down. Geralt ignored the rest of Jaskier’s cock completely and instead enclosed his vulnerable pink crown in his tight fist. The squelch of oil and come from his fast jerks as his hand flew over Jaskier’s oversensitive cockhead filled the room. All Jaskier could do was scream and writhe at the relentless stimulation and the painful pleasure coursing through his body. He surprised himself by bucking his hips up into Geralt’s fist. He wanted to come so badly, at least then the hand torturing him would stop. He shot thick white spurts out of Geralt’s fist with little warning and Geralt jerked him through it. Only when Jaskier’s hands curled around Geralt’s wrist did the witcher relent and release his dick, and still he was coming. Jaskier counted six long spurts erupting from his cock before he couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed back onto the bed, completely at the mercy of his cock pulsing cruelly and spurting hot white seed like a geyser as his entire body trembled through the most intense orgasm he’d ever had.

Geralt watched him as he came, his asshole contracting with each powerful spurt of his cock, and shoved his neglected dick deep inside the bard, more for his own desire than anything else, but still stimulating the sensitive nerve endings in Jaskier’s overused hole beyond their breaking point. It was too much for his orgasming dick, Geralt wasn’t even thrusting for fucks sake, he was just inside him but Jaskier was _coming again_. Was it a second, consecutive orgasm? Or had his first just been stretched out obscenely? He didn’t know, fuck, he didn’t know, all he knew was that he was speared mercilessly, just as Geralt had promised, coming and crying on Geralt’s cock, just like he’d promised.

Eventually, his orgasm subsided leaving behind a pool of white on his stomach. But even after it stopped, the aftershocks didn’t. His exhausted body twitched involuntarily with full-bodied contractions like he was being electrocuted. He was babbling something about how amazing Geralt was, how much he loved him, how good he felt and Geralt was sure it was just the pleasure talking, and yet, and yet, he couldn’t stop himself running his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, then the sides of his stomach in broad, sure strokes. Jaskier’s hands curled around his forearms and just held him, breathing heavily, as his dizzy, smiling eyes met Geralt’s.

“How’re you doing?” Geralt asked softly, a hint of warm amusement in his voice. Jaskier smiled at him like the sun was beaming from his face.

Geralt let him calm for a while until, inevitably, the pressure around his cock was too much to ignore and he pulled out before sinking back in again. The bard gasped, but it was a weak, sedated sound and his arms were still holding Geralt’s forearms as Geralt’s hands curled possessively around his ribs.

They kept holding each other like that as Geralt continued his slow, controlled thrusts. It was easier to tease an orgasm from Jaskier’s spent, lax body now than it had been before – as if Jaskier were resting permanently on the brink of pleasure. Geralt could have fucked him harder, but he didn’t need to. Instead, he relished in the slow drag of Jaskier’s sucking heat on his cock, and the deep pleasure it released in his gut as his balls tightened, really tightened, for the first time in years. He allowed his eyes to slide shut. Geralt rarely found a partner who could sustain his stamina and his size for long enough to allow him to reach that point where he could enjoy sex, rather than just using it as a mad dash to the finish line so he could exit his lover as quickly as possible and save them further discomfort. But here and now, the satisfying pressure, the ache in his groin, the pleasant tingle in his stomach was building to a crescendo inside him. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he found himself saying without warning as he pulled out and eased back in again, shuddering the entire time.

When Jaskier didn’t respond, Geralt opened his eyes and looked down at him. Jaskier had his eyes closed as if he were asleep except for a small furrow in his brow and his features stretched into calm, frozen ecstasy. He had a hand on his cock, half-hard and red-tinged, but he wasn’t pleasuring himself, just loosely holding himself as his hips rolled minutely and met Geralt’s gentle thrusts. Geralt’s gaze lowered and he watched as his huge cock was swallowed by Jaskier’s tiny hole and was honestly surprised that it wasn’t causing him discomfort. Of course, Jaskier was lubed and loose and excepting, and if he were in any pain Geralt would know and would stop immediately, but it couldn’t be pleasurable, could it? Not according to his other partners at least. Worry washed over the witcher and threatened to break his equilibrium. Was Jaskier humouring him?

Mouth slightly open, and with his eyes fixed on where their bodies connected, Geralt pulled out completely and watched as his cockhead popped readily back inside Jaskier’s wrecked hole and sunk back inside the path he’d carved for himself. But he deliberately stopped a few inches short so that part of his cock stayed outside of Jaskier, before pulling back out and sinking in, again only halfway, so for Jaskier it was like getting fucked by a normal cock, and for Geralt it was like the exposed few inches of his length were encased in ice in comparison to the burning heat of Jaskier’s pliant body.

Jaskier whined, high-pitched and instinctive and it wasn’t a sound that sounded like it had come from a human, but the displeasure was clear. Jaskier didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t move his hand cradling his cock, but sunk his hips down, chasing Geralt’s cock until he’d pressed the entire length back inside him. Only then did his expression clear and a soft sigh fell from his lips. Geralt didn’t recognise the feeling that surged through him, but when he pulled back out again, he made sure to sink his entire length back inside Jaskier’s waiting body. Jaskier’s breath hitched, his nose wrinkled in cute, pained concentration as his cock twitched in the loose grip of his fist and dribbled dollops of seed over his fingers. He tightened around Geralt, but his hole was too loose and lax to really clamp down anymore. It was the seizing of the bard’s body that Geralt really felt.

Geralt let him ride it out for a few moments before he curled his hands around Jaskier’s hips and shoved his entire body down onto his cock, keeping him held tight against him so they were connected as fully and deeply as was possible. Geralt couldn’t get his huge cock any further inside Jaskier if he tried.

A low, long moan fell from Jaskier’s mouth as his body tightened like a bowstring and his legs shook in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt groaned too and it was a guttural sound. He felt his cock twitch inside Jaskier before it was pulsing, spilling, filling him with his scorching seed.

“Oh gods, oh Christ, oh fuck.” Jaskier babbled breathlessly as he felt himself being filled and he covered his face with his hands. Geralt’s eyes clamped shut, completely at the mercy of his cock throbbing in Jaskier’s asshole. Something bright and white washed over his body and his mind and he felt a _release_ deep within his bones that seemed to last for hours.

A gentle patter got his attention and he opened his eyes and saw his own come dripping from Jaskier’s still stuffed hole and onto the bed. That’s how fucking much he’d spilled.

He held Jaskier’s legs securely as he pulled free of him, releasing a river of come that spilled from his hole and Jaskier groaned, his legs collapsing against the bed as his thighs and the blanket below him slowly soaked with the seed gushing from him. Geralt tightened a hand around his cock reflexively, milking a few pitiful dollops from himself as he watched. He’d filled Jaskier with so much of his seed he was more Geralt than he was Jaskier. If the bard were a woman, and Geralt were a man, he would have just impregnated him. He frowned, certain that shouldn’t have been as hot a thought as it was.

Jaskier’s legs fell open, sore and aching, and Geralt couldn’t resist ducking down to his knees and staring at Jaskier’s wrecked hole. It was red, puffy, loose and _gaping_. It was fluttering in time with Jaskier’s heavy breathing but it wasn’t closing, not even a little, and the puckered ridges were streaked with white that Geralt had put there. He knew how muscles worked, and he knew that his hole would tighten again but a small part of him wished that it wouldn’t, that his hole would stay gaped and wrecked and ruined for all other people and Geralt’s cock would be the only thing that was enough for him and Jaskier would _beg_ him to fuck him like no one else could. He shook his head to himself, obviously still lust-drunk and bleating nonsense, before he rose to his feet and crawled onto the bed next to the bard.

He allowed himself a small pleased smile at his softened cock, the beast momentarily tamed, so to speak, before he became aware of the man lying next to him.

He didn’t really know what to say now.

After a while, a smile spread across Jaskier’s face as he rubbed his eyes.

“Don’t you feel like an idiot?” He laughed, rolling into his side and facing Geralt.

Geralt quirked an eyebrow in surprise. “I’m _sorry_?”

“ _Oh, you can’t handle me, Jaskier_.” Jaskier mimicked, deliberately lowering his voice a few octaves in a mocking impression of Geralt’s gravelly tones. He still had that breath-taking smile plastered on his face and it was the _only_ reason Geralt didn’t hit him.

“Don’t push it, bard.”

Jaskier batted him on the arm. “Ah, you’ve got a cock to rival the gods, it’s not all lose-lose.”

They lay their amiably for a while, and Geralt was surprised at how very normal the whole situation seemed. It was as if nothing had happened. Not like they were ignoring what had happened, but rather as if their passionate love-making was but the next natural step in their companionship.

“I’ve not been able to…” Geralt tried to say before he stopped himself, and instead settled on: “thank you.”

Jaskier leant over him and pressed a kiss to his lips. Geralt smiled into it, enjoying the warmth and the pressure of such a simple yet intimate exchange. Jaskier pulled back and ran a hand over Geralt’s cheek. “Anytime,” he said, eyes sparkling.

Soon after, the bard sprang up and set about ordering them a bath, but Geralt still felt the heat of his hand on his cheek and the echo of ‘ _anytime’_ in his ears.

He wished Jaskier really meant it and all he could bring himself to do was smile sadly because he knew he didn’t, he knew that the bard would tire of his conquest as soon as he’d conquered it and they would resume their bizarre beneficial friendship and ignore the inklings of attraction between them as they’d always done. Jaskier was his elusive fable around the campfire now – just a memory.

…

Not a week later and a town over and Geralt was awoken in the middle of the night by Jaskier slamming the door to their rented room open.

“The fuck?” Geralt slurred, lifting his head off the pillow and seeing Jaskier stood before him with his arms crossed. “Jaskier? What’s going on?”

“You _prick_.” Jaskier fired off accusingly.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Jaskier, I’m tired. If that stable lad you were chatting up over dinner turned you down, I don’t want to hear about it.”

He turned over and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“He didn’t turn me down, as it happens.” Jaskier continued, as if there was no lull in conversation. Geralt could hear the rustling of fabric. “He dragged me into the stables, bent me over that wooden thingy they shoe the horses on…”

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want hear this. He didn’t want to hear about Jaskier getting fucked by someone who wasn’t him. He heard the clunk of Jaskier’s boots hitting the floor.

“It was all going swimmingly, until I’m bent over bored out of my fucking mind with an erection that won’t go away because his blade-of-grass dick doesn’t compare to _Captain fucking Horsecock!_ ”

Geralt opened his eyes then and turned over to see Jaskier stark naked, hands on hips, cock jutting out in front of him and a vexed look on his face.

“Now, if you’ll so kindly fuck me until I can’t see straight, maybe I can get some sleep.” His expression was petulant, but his eyes were wide and hopeful.

A grin forced itself traitorously onto Geralt’s face and he pulled back the blanket in invitation.

The end

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: so I can’t figure out if they’re actually together or if they just like to fuck? I suppose their new forays into sexual encounters will make them catch feelings. Oh well. You can decide.


End file.
